"Hope is a fragile thing," Velrosa thought, her gaze drifting across the skyline of Esgard.
Not because it was rare. No. Hope bloomed like rot in desperate places—fed by lies, watered by rumors.
But because when it broke, it broke everything.
She watched the city breathe.
From her perch atop the House Elarin estate, she could see the veins of the city: the crisscrossing bridges over chasm-deep canals, the soaring banners of the Great Houses, the columns of smoke rising from merchant stalls and smithies.
Somewhere in that teeming chaos, blood was being spilled.
Gold was being pocketed.
Secrets were being whispered between gritted teeth.
—
Below, in the maze of Esgard's lower districts, a boy of no more than ten brushed past a drunk noble, palms hidden beneath his sleeves.
A thin scrap of parchment slid from his left hand to another's without a word. The second figure, cloaked and limping, slipped away into the alley's shade without glancing back.
